His shoulders stiffened at the unmistakable sound of a car approaching. Amara hadn’t said anything in the last few minutes. What was she doing? He turned, his heart still pounding—and then cracking ever so slightly at her tear-streaked face. She looked so wretched, so miserable. He wanted nothing more than to take her back into his arms. But first, he needed answers.
Sophie pulled up before them in a silver SUV, remaining in the driver’s seat a moment before gracefully exiting the vehicle. She cocked her head at Amara. “I take it, it didn’t go well?”
Amara cast a glance at Matt before shaking her head in response. “I told him my ... history. He doesn’t believe me.”
Matt whirled to stare at Sophie, though he addressed his words to Amara. “Wait. You’re telling me Sophie knows your claims? That she believes them?”
Sophie nodded. “I understand it’s a lot to take in, Mr. Goodson. Why don’t you come back to Clarehaven? We can sit for a cup of tea and talk things over. I’m sure you have many questions.”
Matt ran his hand over his hair again. Damn it, what was happening? Had the whole world gone mad? Or just he?
The image of the painting he’d seen online last night flashed through his head. He’d thought then the girl in the portrait—the portrait hanging on Clarehaven’s walls—was Amara. Just for a moment. Could it be?
Shaking his head, he stalked toward the automobile without looking at Amara. He’d go with them—what choice did he have?—but he’d be damned if he made this easy on either of them. Plus, his mind was a whirl of confusion.
He settled into the rear seat as best he could, surprised when Amara crawled in next to him, rather than taking the front next to Sophie. He shot her a harsh glare, then looked away out the window. Even so, the nervousness radiating from her was unmistakable, and after a moment he let his leg loll to the side on the pretense of not having enough room—which was, in fact, the truth; stuffing 6’3” of a man into the back of a car was never easy, even in a large SUV. His knee touched Amara’s, and she gasped softly. He didn’t meet her gaze, his own eyes fixed on the scenery flashing by.
But he didn’t remove his leg, either.
Misery welled up in Amara. It’d all gone so wrong, but what had she expected? What had she wanted? Seeing Matthew standing there before her on Clarehaven’s grounds, her first impulse had been to launch herself into his arms—a desire she’d immediately squashed. She’d come here to deal with her mistakes, not entrap a man with them, a man already entrapped by a manuscript, a spell, about which he knew nothing.
She needed to be independent, not look to a man for salvation. But as Matthew’s thigh rubbed against hers, it was hard not to wish to be saved.
It’d be so much easier to give over to the attraction, to the feelings she must acknowledge had long been growing for him. But attraction faded. And how could she ever trust, ever believe he wanted her for her, between the manuscript and ... and the baby?
Her abdomen cramped, a sharp pain, and she settled an arm over it as they pulled into Clarehaven’s garage. She groaned as a second pain hit, and Matthew looked over, concern creasing his face. “Are you okay?” His voice was distant, polite, but his eyes betrayed him.
“Yes, fine,” she answered in a similar, reserved voice. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”
Both exited the car and followed silently after Sophie. As they neared the door, a third pain struck Amara, so intense she doubled over.
“What the? Sophie!” Matthew’s panicked voice hit her ear as his arms went around her, lifting her against his chest. “Something’s wrong!”
Chapter 38
Matthew can lift me? She nearly giggled at the errant, silly thought. He was tall, of course, even taller than her brothers, but lean, and she’d never thought of herself as little. His scent, that familiar, seductive combination of woods and man, settled over her, and she nestled into him, soaking up the smell. Another pain stabbed through her, however, and she moaned in his arms.
“Her room is upstairs. Follow me,” Sophie commanded, her voice calmly efficient, showing none of the fear Amara felt—the same fear she’d heard in Matthew’s voice.
He carried Amara up the grand staircase and into the bedroom Sophie indicated, laying her on the bed in the middle before smoothing her hair from her forehead. Suddenly, Sophie gasped behind him.
Matthew stood and whirled, and Amara lifted her lids enough to see Sophie press her hands against her mouth, her eyes focused on Amara’s lower body. Matthew followed her gaze, and his face whitened. At the same time, Amara noticed the wetness between her legs, a wetness she hadn’t felt since ... since her last monthlies.
With effort, she propped herself up on her elbows to see what they saw—a reddish stain, growing larger now, on her tan leggings. Mortification enveloped her.
“I’ll call the doctor,” Sophie said, spinning and racing out of the room.
Matthew swooped into Amara’s side, his hands tracing her face carefully, tenderly. “Oh, Amara.” His forehead beaded with perspiration, and he kept his eyes trained on her face.
“Not good with blood?” she said with a weak smile.
He went from white to a slight shade of green. “Normally, I’m fine. But this is ... this is you ... and ...”
“I understand. Would you mind fetching a towel, lest I ruin the bed?” She couldn’t believe how calmly the words came out. It was as if she were removed from her own body, a mere observer of the situation. Everything felt surreal, beyond reality.
Everything of the last month was beyond reality.
“Of course.” Matthew jumped up, looking around the room before spying a bathroom off to the side. He disappeared inside, reemerging with several large bath towels. Returning to the bed, he carefully propped her to the side, all business as he settled the towels under her pelvis before gently rolling her back.
“Are you in any pain?” His brow wrinkled with worry, those icy eyes burning into hers. He took one of her hands in his, rubbing his thumb back and forth across her palm.
“No. Not now. But I can feel ... ” Tears welled up in her eyes as the import of what was happening finally hit her. She was losing the baby. Her and Matthew’s baby. Wetness seeped out of her eyes, flooding her cheeks and the pillowcase around her.
Matthew’s own eyes spilled over, one tear splashing down onto her skin.
“I’m so sorry, Matthew. I didn’t want, we didn’t want, but I still didn’t mean for this—”
He clutched her hand more tightly, shushing her as he smoothed her hair away from her face again. “It’s not your fault, Amara. It’s not your fault.”
But it was.
Was this God’s ultimate punishment for her transgressions? For her past? For her breaking the laws of nature in hopes of escaping to a better future?
She’d never wanted to have children. Yet knowing she was losing this baby, pain seared her like never before. Not physical pain; after those first few jabs, nothing hurt now. No, not physical pain. Emotional pain, emotional devastation worse than she’d ever suffered, even worse than being caught half-naked with a man in a garden all those years ago.
“It is,” she whispered, her eyes drifting shut. “It is my fault.” She hiccupped a sob. “I didn’t want this baby. I wanted freedom. Independence. And now I’m paying for my selfish desires. Selfish. So selfish.”
“Amara, no!”
She heard his voice as if from a distance, heard more words, but couldn’t distinguish them as she relaxed into the welcome blackness enveloping her, dragging her out of her own personal hell.
“No,” he whispered again. How could she believe she was to blame for a miscarriage? “This is not your fault,” he insisted, but her eyes were closed, her breathing regular. He checked her vitals, not sure if she’d simply fallen asleep or passed out. The rhythmic rise and fall of her chest reassured him, though. More tears streamed down Matt’s face as he held her hand in his. He hadn’t wanted a baby, either. Both of them freely acknowledged tha
t. But he certainly hadn’t wanted this. He sneaked a glance at her pelvis. The red stain felt like a stab to his own heart.
Sophie ran back into the room. “A doctor will be here shortly. How is she?”
Doctors still made house calls in England? Though he supposed when one had wealth, a doctor might well go anywhere summoned. “Out for the moment.”
Matt made no effort to hide his tears from Sophie. He felt weirdly comfortable with her, though they’d known each other less than a day. Because she looked so much like Amara? “But she’s ...” He gestured toward Amara’s abdomen, swallowing hard.
“Yes. She will be fine, Matthew.” Sophie walked to him, settling a kind hand on his shoulder. “Women miscarry quite frequently.”
“But like this? With this much—”
“It’ll be all right,” she interrupted. “We—you—must trust in that.”
A bustling in the hallway caught their attention, and a young woman entered the room, followed by a portly older man with a black bag in his hand. The woman exchanged a few words with Sophie, then left.
“Good afternoon. Doctor Lowenstein, at your service. Let me see to the young lady if you would.” The doctor nodded at Matt, who sprang up, moving a few feet away. “It might be best if you leave the room,” the man added when Matt moved no farther.
“Not a chance,” Matt said, surprising himself. He didn’t want to witness what was happening, but it went against every grain in his body to leave Amara right now. “I have some medical training,” he added as if to bolster his case for staying.
The doctor shrugged, turning back to his patient. He efficiently stripped away her leggings—surprisingly strong for an older gentleman—and gently examined her, pulsating carefully on her abdomen before checking her internally. For that part, at least, Matt averted his eyes.
After a few moments, the doctor sighed. “How far along was she?”
Matt looked to Amara. “Can’t have been far. We only met a month ago.”
“I’m sorry to say what you most likely already know, but she has miscarried.”
The words, pronounced with such matter-of-factness, sparked both anger and a fresh wave of sorrow in Matt. How could the man sound so calm when the woman before him was bleeding so profusely?
Because it’s not his baby.
“Will she be okay?”
“Yes. The bleeding is heavy, but that is to be expected. I will give her a high dose of ibuprofen to help staunch it, but if this continues for more than a few hours, you must take her to Accident and Emergency at the local hospital.”
Hours? Good God. “She could bleed out before then!”
“I think she would prefer to stay here, Mr. Goodson,” broke in Sophie from his side. She gave him a pointed glance. “A hospital, especially one as modern as what we have in Winchester,” she said, “might feel overwhelming at a time like this.”
He couldn’t mistake the emphasis on modern. So Sophie truly believed Amara had come from another time. Or was keeping up the pretense, for some reason. He ran a hand through his hair as he paced the room. He wanted answers. Needed answers. But first, he needed to ensure Amara was going to be all right. “You will stay here,” he said to the doctor, a command more than a question.
The older man frowned, adjusting his belt. “I cannot. I have other patients to whom I must attend. But I will leave my number, should you need to contact me, and will check in again when I can.”
Matt growled in protest.
“She will be fine, Mr. Goodson,” Sophie insisted, smiling in apology at the doctor as he took his leave.
Matt rubbed his hand over his face, nodding once in their direction.
But would he?
An hour later, Matt paced the halls of Clarehaven, not taking in his surroundings, his thoughts on the pale woman lying in the bed upstairs ... and on the loss she—they—had suffered.
It hit him hard. He’d barely started to come to terms with the whole idea of being a father, and it—no, he or she—was gone. Like that. His eyes overflowed, but he didn’t care. He was alone. Sophie had offered to stay with him, but he’d asked for time to himself.
He wondered idly where she was now. With Amara?
No doubt he should be there, too, but he didn’t want to disturb her if she was still sleeping. And in truth, he didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know what he felt. He didn’t want this to be one of the times where the wrong thing came out of his mouth, as so frequently happened. This was not one of the situations in which such a faux pas might be forgiven.
He stopped to study a portrait of a heavyset man with a starched collar around his neck. It was the same portrait he’d seen on the web, right down to the codpiece. How had the poor man breathed with a neckpiece that tight? Yet he gave off a confident air, certain of his position, his wealth, his life; something no ridiculous collar could take away.
Exhaling, Matt moved to the next portrait, this one also of a man, leaner than the first, though the resemblance was strong. This man sported a long, white, curly wig. He looked equally ridiculous, in Matt’s opinion. He glanced at the label: His Grace James Samuel Deveric Mattersley, fourth Duke of Claremont.
Mattersley. Amara Mattersley. She belonged to this family, this family that stretched back generations. He surveyed the hallway, taking in its lavish decorations and ornate furnishings. What was it like to grow up with so much wealth, so much security? These people hadn’t ever had to go on food stamps like his family had.
“That’s my great-great-great-great-great grandfather. Or something like that. A whole bunch of greats.” Sophie’s voice was soft and warm as she approached.
He looked up, not bothering to dash the moisture from his cheeks. “I can’t imagine knowing my roots that far back.” A lame thing to say, but it was the only thing he could think of.
She cocked her head to the side. “How are you? You’ve had quite the day, I would say.”
He nodded, his gaze darting down the hallway. “But not as bad as hers.” His lips pulled into a pained line.
“True. But it’s your loss, too.”
He didn’t want to hear the words, wanted to block them and this woman out. They’d barely met. She didn’t know him. Talking about such intimate things, especially when she bore such an uncanny resemblance to Amara? It was almost too much. Almost. He had questions, needed answers. And she was standing here. Slowly, his eyes fixed on hers. “You know the story she told me?”
“You mean the one about her coming forward from 1813?”
He gulped at how easily that rolled off her tongue. “Yeah.”
“It’s true.” Sophie gave a shrug as if to say her impossible words were of no consequence. “Though I’m sure it’s hard for you to believe. I’ve had a lifetime to know the family secret and grow accustomed to it.”
“Family secret?” he echoed, unable to manage anything else.
“Yes. That Great-Grandmother-Whatever Eliza was actually born in this time. 1983, to be exact. But she traveled back to 1812, to marry my grandfather-some-generations removed. Deveric. He was a handsome one, I have to admit.”
Matt’s eyes nearly popped out of his head, but she kept talking. “And Amara? She came forward from 1813. Something about a scandal, though it’s nothing anybody would bat an eyelash at now, poor thing. Times were much different then.”
Again with the insouciant shrug, whereas to him, it was if the bottom of the world were falling out. “You’re telling me time travel is real, and that your family has done it. Twice.”
“Yes.”
Matt looked around for a chair. He needed to sit before his legs buckled beneath him.
“I’ll show you.” She beckoned him farther down the hallway, pointing to a large painting on the wall. “That’s Deveric and Eliza the month they were married. The little boy is Frederick, Dev’s son with his first wife, Mirabelle. And the puppy he’s squeezing is Pirate. I love that they included the dog in a family portrait.”
Matt studied the paintin
g. It looked like any other old portrait to him, and yet that was definitely the same woman in the picture hanging over the Treasure Trove’s fireplace mantel. And the man ... something in his features was awfully familiar. Amara-like.
“Here’s the whole family,” she said, drawing him along to the next portrait, which showed the same couple and child he’d seen before, though this time Eliza’s hand rested on her belly as if she were ... as if she were pregnant. Matt swallowed the lump in his throat as he examined the people around them, including an older lady with a rather formidable expression.
His eyes drifted to the woman on the far right, and his whole body froze. It was Amara. No mistaking it. The same gorgeous honey hair and hazel-green eyes, that long, graceful neck, the sweet little mouth. He gasped.
“Yes,” Sophie said as if his reaction were nothing out of the ordinary. “That’s Amara, in 1813. And that’s her mother, Matilda, the Dowager Duchess.” Sophie indicated the dragon-like lady he’d noticed first. Her lips turned up a hint at the edges, rendering her mildly less forbidding. “There’s Amara’s brother, Chance.” She pointed to a handsome young man. “And her sisters, Grace, Emmeline, and Rebecca.”
Matt put his hand to his head. “You’re telling me the Amara I know—the one in that room right now—is the same one in this painting. That this is her family? From two hundred years ago?”
“Yes.” Sophie’s eyes were calm, patient. “And at least a part of you believes it, too, or you wouldn’t be reacting as you are. You’d have dismissed me out of hand.”
“I still want to.”
“Yes, I’m sure you do!” A chuckle escaped the woman. “Here’s another, though Amara was gone by then.” Sophie pointed to a painting of Deveric and Eliza again, though this time Eliza was holding an infant in her arm. A small girl stood next to the same boy, Frederick, though he was obviously older now, nearly a teen.
The Magic of Love Series Page 86
